


Only Dancing with the Winchester Boys

by RoxanneTucker



Series: Riding with the Winchester Boys [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Car Singing, Dancing, Dirty Dancing, F/M, Implied/Referenced Incest, Jealous Dean Winchester, Jealous Sam Winchester, Kind Dean Winchester, M/M, Making Out, Multi, Possessive Dean Winchester, Possessive Sam Winchester, Sex in a Car, Slow Dancing, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-30 10:29:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10874898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoxanneTucker/pseuds/RoxanneTucker
Summary: “I don’t know how to dance,” she said, squeezing the ever-loving life out of her beer bottle. Dean took it away from her before it exploded in her hands.“And you’re saying those jokers out there do?”He could give her this. He could give her a little bit of normal – while still working the case – to thank her for being pretty good back up over the last few months for him and Sam. He could do this kindness for her to make up for being a constant and pretty unstoppable asshole since she'd started riding in Baby's back seat.





	Only Dancing with the Winchester Boys

**Author's Note:**

> Second installment in the series "Riding with the Winchester Boys." These stories are NOT in chronological order -- this story takes place BEFORE Part 1.
> 
> Title taken from the truly awesome David Bowie song, "John, I'm Only Dancing."

 

Dean was still getting used to looking in his rearview mirror and seeing her back there. It was startling, sometimes, tearing down some two-lane road of an American backwater as the music blared, settling into that peace he could only find when he was behind Baby’s wheel and Sam was on the bench next to him, to glance into his mirror and see an explosion of dark blond curly hair.

Right, he’d remember with a twitch. There was a woman in his back seat. A girl, really. A girl that Cas had saddled them with five months back.

He watched her now as he barrelled through the dark night toward their next case. Sam slept through Jimi Hendrix ripping on _Purple Haze_ , his little brother’s knuckles tucked just against the outer meat of Dean’s thigh. But not her. In the wash of the Baby’s dim interior lights, he could see her sitting straight up, staring out the window like there was something she was going to miss, bopping her shoulders and swaying her head to the grungy thump of the guitar, and singing along, her words just a brush against his ear.

 _Good rains I put my brains_  
_They do things they don’t seem the same_  
_Acting funny but I don’t know why_  
_Scuse me while I kiss this guy_.

Beth always, always, always got the lyrics wrong.

She hadn’t known any of the lyrics, hadn’t even heard any of the great rock n’ roll classics of Dean’s impressive collection, when she first started riding with them. When she slowly began uncrouching from her spot in the back seat, began saying more than the few words necessary for a hunt, he and Sam realized that she barely had been exposed to any music at all. Ditto for TV shows and movies.

“Not even Goonies?” Dean had roared at her, glaring at her in his rearview mirror as she shook her head. “How can any red-blooded American forbid Goonies?”

It was reason enough to return to her father’s house and give the man another beating. Although Beth – using powers that Dean didn’t trust or approve of – had taken care of him pretty good. He and Sam had torn the door off that fucking Closet and beaten the joists and paneling back until it was best described as a wall.

Watching her unfurl in the back seat over the past few months had been … curious, Dean told himself. Like observing an anthropological experiment in one of Sammy’s college classes, a wild child returning to civilization. Though she in no way belonged in that seat and would be booted the instant they completed whatever mission Cas said they were destined to complete together, it had been weirdly gratifying to watch her start to straighten in her seat, to watch her slim shoulders start to shimmy and her delicate face, under all that hair, begin to nod to the rhythm. She’d even asked, more than once, “Can you play that one again? I like that song.” And then, because Dead was wise enough to stick to his impressive collection of great rock n’ roll classics whenever they were on the road, she’d become familiar enough with the tunes to start singing along in a soft, sweet, slightly off-key voice. Always, always, always getting the lyrics eighty percent wrong.

If it had been anyone else, Dean would have already taken the demon blade to them.

But when Sam tried to show her the lyrics to Credence’s _Bad Moon Rising_ – she always sang “There’s a bathroom on the right,” instead of “There’s a bad moon on the rise” – Dean had bumped the smart phone out of his brother’s hand and distracted her with the latest and greatest dogs-and-cats-living-together video. He loved that shit.

“Leave it alone, Sammy,” he’d murmured into his brother’s ear later, stealing a few moments out in the Impala while she slept away in the tiny Ecrapolodge. “Even when she’s getting the words wrong, her voice is still better than yours.”

“Jerk,” Sam panted as Dean – his arms wrapped around his brother’s ginormous chest – used the leverage to pulse hard and steady into him. “I’ve made you ( _unh_ ) come all over yourself using ( _mmm_ ) nothing but my voice.”

Dean shoved his brother’s head down where Beth was getting used to sitting and made sure Sam had no breath left for words.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

So it was with begrudging amusement when, sitting in the sticky booth of a honky-tonk bar on the outskirts of Lincoln, Nebraska, drinking light beers and looking for clues to why three truck drivers had disappeared after stopping at the place, Dean saw Beth light up like a pinball machine when the driving guitar of Heart’s _Barracuda_ came on the jukebox.

“Dean,” she said, sky blue eyes wide with wonder and excitement. “It’s one of your songs.” She said it like they’d unearthed the album from ancient ruins and lovingly played it on a golden turntable.

Sam, looking hot as fuck in one of his v-neck grey t-shirts, sat next to her in the booth. He smiled down at her -- down at her slim shoulders, pale and pretty in Dean's tank top -- with that grin that dug a dimple into his cheek. With his massive chest and deep tan, Sam looked like he could devour her in one bite. “It’s actually a pretty popular song, Beth.”

Dean’s amusement evaporated at that smile. “Yeah,” he grunted. “I don’t own it or nothing.”

And wasn’t he the asshole for taking away her candy. Beth dropped her eyes to her beer before she took a quick drink then returned to scanning the bar, the hunter in her hopping to.

Sam shot him a frown.

Beth was committed to the job. And she was damn good at it. It was why he let her keep that place in the backseat, fuck whatever Cas demanded of him. But Dean also knew all about hiding your stuff – your pain and shame and despair – behind the task at hand.

The girl’s only moment of dubious freedom in her entire 20-something years had been the year she’d spent learning to hunt with her mother. A mother who’d abandoned her daughter to be raised by an abusive, Bible-thumping father until the girl was old enough to be of use to her. Beth, imbued with the skills of a hunter but lacking any other exposure to a “normal” life, already felt like a freak. She didn’t need Dean rubbing it in.

Sam – who’d spent his own amount of time feeling like a freak – continued to glare.

With an exaggerated roll of his eyes, Dean leaned across the table, clinked his beer against her bottle to snag her attention. “But you’re right, this song is one my favorite’s,” he said when she side-eyed him. “Good catch.” She tried to hide her smile by biting it away from her soft, rose lips.

When he glanced at Sam, he got a nod before his brother tipped up the beer bottle and gave him a view of the his strong, tanned, bitable throat.

Beth wouldn’t look at him again, but she couldn’t help herself when she started to tap her beer bottle to the rhythm of Roger Fisher’s thumping guitar as she continued to watch the bar, her eyes trained on the crowd of tattooed and trucker-capped regulars jumping and thrusting on the small dance floor.

“ _You lying so long in the wind_ ,” she sang along with Ann Wilson under her breath. “ _I betcha gonna an bush mend. You have me down, down, down, down on my knees_.”

Of course, she’d get that last fucking line right, Dean thought as he shifted on red pleather.

He had an impulse. “I’m not catching anything,” he said, leaning over the table to be heard by Sam and Beth. They’d looked for hex bags and muttered a few chants as they’d ordered their beers, but so far, nothing had revealed itself. “Beth and I should go out on the dance floor. See if we can find anybody working mojo out there.”

Sam’s eyebrows rose up into the silky dark hair shadowing his forehead. Beth looked like he just told her to take a stroll in a thunderstorm, the only thing she’d shown any true fear of.

“I don’t know how to dance,” Beth said, squeezing the ever-loving life out of her beer bottle.

Dean took it away from her before it exploded in her hands. “And you’re saying those jokers out there do?” Even she should be able to tell that the dude bending his knee, head-banging his hair, and thrusting his fist up into the air for every down beat was just wrong.

“But I’ve never –”

Dean knew it. “You’d never shot a cannon, pretended to be a librarian, or choked out a possessed Starbucks barrista either. And look how good you did there. It’s part of the hunt, kiddo.” He grabbed her slim hand and dragged her out of the booth before she could worry herself frozen.

Sam gave them a bemused smile with the beer bottle hovering near his mouth. “I guess I’ll – keep an eye on things from here.”

There’d been no proms for Beth. No sweet sixteen birthdays parties in someone’s basement where the girls wanted to dance and the boys wanted to rub up on them. There certainly hadn’t been dance clubs or girls’ nights out while Beth was eating, drinking, and sleeping a hunter’s life with her mother. Beth, he thought to himself as he pulled her to the makeshift dance floor between tables and booths, probably never even had the privacy to sing some pop song to her comb while she made Madonna eyes in the bathroom mirror.

Not that Dean ever did that.

He could give her this. He could give her a little bit of normal – while still working the case – to thank her for being pretty good back up over the last few months for him and Sam. Hell, she’d actually saved their bacon more than once. It was, you know, hunter to hunter, two brothers…sisters…hunters-in-arms, one doing good for the other.

He could do this kindness for her to make up for being a constant and pretty unstoppable asshole.

He pulled her into the dense crowd and turned her to face him. “Um…” He leaned closer to her, got a whiff of the fresh apple sweetness of her among the press of sweaty bodies. “Just, uh, move your hips to the beat.”

He saw her glance to the side of him, so he turned to catch a dude stomping his feet from left to right, looking like a jittery, cracked out marionette moving to the quick pace.

Dean grabbed her shoulders, exposed in one of the white tank tops he wore as an undershirt. They hadn't gotten around to buying her more clothes to make up for the ones she’d abandoned. Her pale shoulders felt surprisingly cool in the heat of the crowd. “No,” Dean said, close to her ear. He wondered if she could hear him through the wild curls of her long hair. “Move your hips and shoulders. Not your feet. That’s the mistake dudes who can’t dance make. Watch this.”

He felt like a fucking moron, giving a dance tutorial, but he did it anyway, let go of her and stepped back enough for her to see him. Then he began to move his shoulders, kinda rolling them to the beat, as he shimmied his hips from side to side. He looked around, at the crowd dancing, at the neon beer signs, at anything other than her and what a fucking tool he must look like, but better she start out on the right foot than on the wrong…

That’s when he glanced at her and, through the shadows and neon haze, caught the softest, sweetest hint of happiness on her rose-pink lips.

“Oh, you like that?” he asked, a grin popping up on his face. “You’re gonna _looooove_ this.” He lifted his hands and began to really ham it up, shaking his chest and shoulders, thumping his hips back and forth to the rhythm, moving closer into her. “C’mon baby, don’t leave me hangin’.”

Hiding her smile behind one shy hand, she began to move, her hips rocking in her tight, faded jeans. Tilting herself slightly away from him, she gave a little rock to her shoulders. She was like a new blade of grass quivering in a light-beer breeze. “That’s right, baby,” he teased. “Give it to me!”

As Ann Wilson moaned out the last of the barracudas, Dean knew they were nearing the end of the song. It was a good enough start and they could head back to Sam and …

Her blue eyes popped wide, mylar balloons of pleasure, when the bass heart beat of Foreigner’s _Juke Box Hero_ melded into the ending strains of _Barracuda_. She wasn’t the only one – the dancing crowd cheered drunkenly. But Dean had watched her sway in the back seat to this one, had watched her close her eyes and give an impassioned quick sing-along, and he realized now, that while she may have never seen the lip-synch rock-star version of herself, he had. This song was special to her.

The way she began to move back and forth to the throbbing beat meant that he wasn’t getting off this dance floor while Lou Gramm was moaning about the "sold out show."

 _Heard the roar of the crowd_  
_He could picture the scene_  
_Put his head to the wall_  
_And like a distant scream_

He was surprised, shocked really, when her hips gave a twist right at the power screech of " _He heard one guitar."_ Her shoulders jolted to " _Just blew him away_." Then her head twisted, sending all that hair flying to " _Saw stars in his eyes_."

Indeed. Dean had cleared them out of his own by the time the song was working its way back to the chorus and he remembered that he was supposed to be dancing "with" her. He started to move, moving his chest to the beat, as he watched her dance, with abandon, without thought, as if jumping from "I can't dance" to head-swaying sing-a-long was the most natural thing in the world, when he almost tripped over his own goddamned boots.

When Lou sang about that guitar _slung waaaay down low_ , she'd done this swinging, twisting, belly dancer move with her hips, twisting low and swinging back up, smiling at him, as sinuous as a snake.

Jesus.

She was a hunter. She could move; had to be nimble to get out of the scrapes hunters got themselves in. Even Bobby had been light on his feet when the situation had called for it. When the best fighters watched old boxing matches and karate movies, they weren't watching the hands. They were paying attention to the feet.

He realized now -- he'd seen her fight, he'd been stuck in the car for five fucking months fighting his awareness of the slim compact curve and muscle of her -- what a bad idea it'd been to ask her to dance.

 _Juke box hero_  
_Stars in his eyes_  
_Juke box hero_  
_He'll come alive tonight_

Dean twisted his shoulder, cutting off a dude who thought he was in a fucking mosh pit, and when her eyes lit up, he just kept going, moving his shoulders and chest to the driving rhythm, pursing his lip into his rock god face as he watched her smile gleefully then practice her own rock god face, pursing her own lips intently as she tried a tentative head bang. The paler hair underneath all her curls caught the light. Dean raised his fist in a fake microphone and sang about " _Thought he passed his own shadow, by the back stage door_." Beth became the Mick Jones to Dean's Lou Gramm when she spread her legs and swung her arm around with a stunning windmill strum of her air guitar. " _That one guitar, made his whole life change._ "

" _Now he needs to keep a rockin', he just can't stop_ ," Dean sang to her, rocking his hips and thumping his fist into the air. Beth was jumping up on the balls of her boots. " _Gotta keep on rockin'_ " she yelled back. " _Gap boy has got to play on pop_."

 _And be a juke box hero_. They both swayed back and forth, watching each other's face-clenched metal passion as they sang " _Stars in his eyes_."

 _He's a juke box hero_. Their fists mirrored each other as they slowly them raised into the air.

_With that one guitar, he'll come alive -- Come alive tonight_

Then the floor went wild when Mick Jones let loose on the guitar and the whole dance crowd started jumping and thrusting with no thought to finesse or rhythm and Dean and Beth were right in there with them, jumping and fist bumping and head banging but still somehow maintaining their own little planet in the sweat-soaked universe, bodies aimed toward each other as their hearts pumped in bad ass rock anthem solidarity. They both leaned their heads back in tandem and screamed the final words with the crowd.

_Stars in his eyes..._

Dean was not ashamed that he ended the song with a few compact judo kicks. Beth had almost punched some fool in the nose with her final fist bumps.

He was only ashamed when gasping, fists on his hips, the first guitar strums of Bad Company's _Feel Like Making Love_ caught him still out on the floor. The women cheered. The men groaned.

And as people paired up and a few lucky souls headed to the bar, Beth looked at him curiously. "Do you like this song, Dean?"

 _Fuck no_. No heterosexual male who'd grown up in the Midwest liked this song. Too many memories of having to awkwardly slow dance to it at every middle school and high school gathering, trying to handle a girl's romance eyes while keeping your easy-trigger dick from rubbing up against her dress.

_Baby. When I think about you. I think about loooooooooooove._

He could just say no and get them the fuck off the dance floor.

"Sure," Dean heard himself say, saw himself reaching for her hand and her waist and pulling her toward him. All the coolness of her had been replaced by warm, glistening skin. "We ain't caught the bad guy yet."

Right. The case. They were supposed to be out here looking for...

The tips of her breasts, the smooth curve of her thigh in her jeans, brushed against the hard front of him. She was fucking...compact, the way her head reached just under his nose, the way his big hand slotted just into her waist. But she was soft, too. Dean could feel the give and flesh of her, where his hand held onto her hip. Only his thin white tank top separated his hand from her skin.

As they began to move, a slow back and forth, he realized how weird it was that it had never bothered him that she'd started horking his clothes.

_If I had those golden dreams of my yesterday._

Moving in a slow circle with her, her curls brushing his nose, the apple scent coming off her warmed-up body was spicier somehow, weirdly familiar. The familiarity had Dean relaxing into it, just a slow dance with a pretty girl, something he'd done a million times in his life.

"You've got a nice voice," he heard her say, soft, and he realized he'd been singing along, under his breath. He shifted his hand on hers. It was small, even for its callouses. Tensile strong.

"Hm," he said, looked down at her hair, her shoulder. He saw raised flesh, goose bumps down the bicep of her pale arm. His knee bumped between hers. His hand ghosted down her back, where her hips began to disappear into her belt.

 _Feel like makin' love._  
_Feel like makin' love to you._

"You have a really nice voice," she said again, her small-town drawl all delicate and breathless against his neck. Her fingers tapped softly against his collarbone, like she was afraid to touch him. To hold him.

Dean felt his fingers spread just above her belt, four fingertips pressing her pale, warm, fairy-like body toward him as he realized, gobsmacked, what her smell reminded him of.

 _Holy fuck,_ he thought. _The girl stuck in my backseat smells like apple pie when she gets warmed up_.

"My turn!" Sam popped up next to them like a giant Jack-in-the-box. The smile on his face -- manic, wild-eyed, evil-intentioned -- would have been perfect on one of those fucking clowns.

Dean was in trouble.

"Sammy, I..." Dean began, not knowing what he was going to say in front of her. But before he could say anything, Beth was ripped out of his arms and wrapped up in Sam. Sam with the giant hands Dean loved almost meeting at her waist, backing her up into the crowd and away from Dean, Mr. Klutz now fucking Baryshnikov when he had a point to make, all gentle smiles into Beth's bewildered face as his hair hung around those cheekbones that could cut glass.

 _Fuck_. Dean stood on the dance floor, clenching his hands into fists, not certain who to rip off who. He shoved a drunk dude who bumped into him just to have someone to take it out on before he stalked back to the table, growling at the waitress to bring him a shot of Jack. And the bottle.

It was bad enough watching Sam slow dance with her. Towering above everyone, it was impossible to miss Sam's face, neon glow highlighting his sincere eyes and sweet smile and overall effort to broadcast a big "fuck you, Dean" across the bar as Beth's pale hands -- all Dean could see of her in the crowd -- fluttered across his brother's wide, strong shoulders.

But as tortuous as _Feel Like Making Love_ was -- Jesus, he now officially HATED that fucking song -- seeing the crowd part as some White Stripes song came on was even worse. The crowd cheered, the goddamned traitors, and then everyone was thrusting and head-banging to _Blue Orchid_. And Sam, that asshole who'd probably paid ten bucks to get his emo shit to bypass the hair-band heavy metal tunes on the juke box, looked like he was actually having a good time as he rocked his big chest back and forth, as he kept a hand on Beth who Dean knew, he knew, had never heard that song before, as she began to move tentatively to the song, looking up to Sam for all of her cues, beginning to grin shyly up at him, at his big, dumb, goofy smile as Jack White, that asshole, asked: _How old are you?_ _How old are you now anyway?_ in the most suggestive fucking way possible.

Dean realized at that moment, as Beth twisted her hips to the driving beat, raising her hands and making her hair fly, as Sam kept a hand on her spell-weaving hip and knelt low to stay close to her, that Sam wasn't thinking of him at all.

 _You got a reaction._  
_You got a reaction didn't you?_  
_You took a white orchid._  
_You took a white orchid and turned it blue._

More people left the floor as the next song came on, obviously another Sam pick, leaving the two of them with just a few diehard stragglers. Dean was looking forward to Beth feeling conspicuous, getting a clue that Sam's music sucked, and coming back to the table. Instead, she took a step closer to his little brother as the guitar gave a dirty, low buzz and a voice, some British twangy hipster voice, began to sing alley sex into every word.

Dean watched, a buzz between his ears, as the innocent, blue-eyed girl from his back seat wrapped her hands around his brother's lean neck, as his little brother grabbed her hips like they were a saddle, and the two began to rock and twist, faces close to each other and grins big enough to split pumpkins.

 _I go crazy 'cause here isn't where I wanna be_  
_And satisfaction feels like a distant memory_  
_And I can't help myself_  
_All I wanna hear her say is are you mine?_

 _Are you mine?_  
_Are you mine?_  
_Are you mine?_

She was tiny next to his brother, tiny and tight in Dean's tank top and her ripped jeans, hair bigger than the rest of her. His brother, huge and so dark next to her pale skin, should have looked like a rampaging predator next to her. Instead, she was Tinkerbell, wispy and glowing, dancing around him, making him smile and turn and sway to the raunchy guitar of the song. Dean's eyes twitched to the crowd -- hell, they were supposed to be on a job -- and he noticed others were just as slack-jawed and mesmerized as he was.

They were fucking gorgeous together, light and dark, small and ginormous. Man and woman. Sam leaned close, actually pressed his forehead against her delicate shoulder, and Dean watched his brother's long, damp hair sweep over Beth's skin.

Dean took a shot straight out of the bottle of Jack and refused to adjust his cock in his jeans.

It took everything in him not to throw the bottle against a wall when the beginning _wa-wa-wa_ of Marvin Gaye's _Let's Get It On_ came over the jukebox.

That was fucking it.

He marched straight to them, the crowd parting before him like the Red Sea. Parting for Dean and his furious hard cock.

"Beth, head back to the table. I gotta talk to my brother." He didn't even glance at her as he grabbed Sam by his collar and hauled him around the corner to the exit door.

Kicking open the door, he pulled Sam out with him and threw him against the alley's brick wall, anger giving him a strength advantage over his bigger little brother.

"What the fuck, Dean!" Sam yelled, splashing into something nasty.

Dean was on him in a second, forearm pressing into Sam's throat, free hand fisting into his t-shirt. "What the fuck is right," Dean growled back. "What the fuck you think you were doing in there?" Sam's t-shirt was damp, his rigid stomach muscles hot under Dean's knuckles. Hot from dancing with her.

"What?" Sam said, an angry smirk on his face. A streetlight dug into the fire in his fox eyes. "You can dish it out but you can't take it?"

"What're you fucking talking about?" Dean yelled, pressing his arm harder into his brother's larynx. How dare he drive him crazy for no good reason. "I was only dancing with her!"

"So was I!" Sam yelled back, louder even through it was shredded, torn through his constricted throat.

Dean blinked. Saw his brother's face turning redder. Realized -- he tore his arm away from him, stumbled back.

Sam slumped back against the wall. Raised a hand to his throat.

"Sammy," Dean groaned.

His self-flagellation was stopped midstride when Sam smirked as he continued to massage his throat. "Don't, dude," Sam said. "I was seriously thinking about shooting out one of your knee caps."

Dean shook out his hands, continued to stare at his gorgeous brother as he forced himself to take deep calming breaths.

Sam's big hand dropped to his thigh. "We were only dancing, man."

Dean grunted. "So were we."

"Don't get me wrong," Sam said, settling his weight on both legs as he continued to lean back on the wall. "It felt good to dance with her."

Dean shook his head. "Yeah." He hadn't felt so foggy dancing with a girl since those high school shindigs Beth had never gotten to enjoy.

Sam pushed off the wall and took a step toward him. "The thing is Dean, I think it felt good for her, too."

"Yeah, I --" Dean looked away, into the streetlight, not good about talking about this shit. "I didn't pull her out there to make you..." He flapped a hand at Sam without looking at him. "I thought..."

His words choked him, but Sam stepped in close to save him from them. "You thought you'd do something nice for her," Sam said near the crook of his neck, casting his dark shadow over Dean. He could smell Sam, heated up, wood-burned evergreen forest. And he could smell Beth on him, that hint of sweet and spice. "You thought you'd give her something she'd never had before."

Sam's thumb rasped over the scruff at Dean's jaw. "Dean, I did go out there to make you as jealous as you made me. But once I started moving with her, I just -- it was nice seeing that smile on her face. She's probably smiled more with us in the last five months than she has her whole life. And she still doesn't do it very often."

"No," Dean concurred, his eyes closed, his chin pushed up against Sammy's thumb as his brother gave a couple of long, slow kisses down his neck.

Sammy bit into his tendon, that soothed it with a slow lick. "Do you think we should keep dancing with her?" he murmured into Dean's skin.

Dean swallowed against his brother's mouth. "Yeah," Dean said, voice down in the gravel. Gripping his hand into Sam's hair, he pulled him away from his throat and stared into his fire-lit eyes. "Yeah, let's keep dancing with her." He pulled his brother to his mouth and with tongue and lips and teeth ended any quarrel about who was desired and claimed and owned.

Beth's blue eyes were huge and stricken as they walked back to her in the booth. "Dean, I'm so sorry," she said, scrambling to standing. "I know we should have been paying better attention and it's my fault we got distracted from the hunt so please don't be mad at Sam for--"

Jesus, she was such an innocent. "Woah, woah, sweetheart, it's okay." Dean held up his hands. "Sam and I just had a misunderstanding." A misunderstanding about whose dick wanted to go where, something he didn't think Beth would be able to get her head around in a million years. Sharing hotel rooms with Beth to keep her safe had definitely put a crimp in his and Sam's "quality" time, which is probably one of the reasons they'd had this stupid fight. He was looking forward to taking some downtime in the bunker and getting Beth set up in her own damn bedroom.

"We got it worked out now and we wanna keep dancing," he told her, pouring a shot of Jack into the shot glass and holding it out to her.

She wrapped her pretty hand with those delicate fingers around the glass. "You do?" she asked, eyes wide.

"We do," Sam said, taking a belt right out of the bottle, right were Dean's lips had been. "Now drink up before my songs run out."

Dean groaned. "Jeez, Sammy. How much of your shit did you cram in there?" Dean took his own drink off the bottle, licked a little to taste his brother on the rim. Sam caught him doing it and smirked as his eyes turned smoky.

 _Fuck it_ , Dean thought, and he took a long, slow pull on the bottle, his eyes never leaving Sam's, and figured they could come back tomorrow to catch whatever was haunting the place.

At first, the three of them just clowned around when they got back on the crowded dance floor, the drunks of Lincoln, Nebraska not having the good sense to flee at Sam's horrible music taste. Sam did a pretty good Mick Jagger impersonation as he sang Black Keys _Howlin' For You_ into his invisible microphone, and Dean might have given his own rock God sneer as Beth slung her arm around his shoulders and they both sang "Da-da-da-da-da" into Sammy's fist. Dean couldn't fault Sam when _Thriller_ came on -- it'd been awhile since he'd gotten to pull out his eighth grade break-dancing moves. Beth looked at him like he'd just performed magic when he directed his wave at her, and Sam nearly bust a gut when she tried to wave back, her arms like floppy, overcooked spaghetti noodles. Sam surprised him with a damn decent robot, which Beth picked up better, her strong, lean shoulders gleaming, her wide-eyed face like a china doll. Beth had a wide, generous mouth like Sam's, but when her face was still, her mouth puckered up like a kewpie doll's.

Dean stopped, still as death, when the first husky tone of Bill Medley came over the speakers.

_Now I had the time of my life..._

At Dean's psychopathic rage glare, Sam put up both his hands. "Uh-uh, no way, man. I didn't do this."

"Sammy!" Dean warned with a growl as Jennifer Warnes sang that she _owed it all to you_.

"Don't look at me," Sam said, hands still up but fighting a smile. "I spent my last buck on _Thriller._ But, since we're out here..."

The asshole grabbed Beth and -- a hand on her hip and another engulfing her hand -- began moving her around with some complicated 1-2-1-and-2 bossa nova bullshit that made Beth's eyes light up, made her grin go up to 11 as she picked it up effortlessly, and made Dean wonder where in the fuck his klutzy ass brother picked up such smooth moves.

Sam one-and-two'ed her back toward Dean. "I showed her the dancing," he grinned, spinning her into Dean's arms. "Now you show her the dirty."

Dean groaned as Beth placed hesitant hands on his shoulders, big blue eyes looking up to him for what to do next. Sam had seen Dean do that move one time -- one time! -- when they'd been in high school and some girls had been over while their dad was hunting and they'd all been drinking and _Love Man_ came over their tinny radio. "Fuck no!" Dean protested, his hands loose at Beth's sides.

"C'mon Dean," Sam urged, laughing. "Remember, like in the movie." He stepped in close against Beth's back, wove his fingers through Dean's and pressed them to her hips. "You remember," he said, the ends of his long hair tickling his dimples.

Beth stared up at Dean with her big Easter egg eyes.

"Goddammit," Dean groused, and, before Sam could get any more annoying, Dean stuck his knee in between Beth's legs and swooped them all down, his fingers still gripping Sam's, down and back up in that hip-rolling, dance-fucking move that Patrick Swayze made famous in the movie. Beth gasped and Sam whooped as Dean rolled his hips, forcing Beth to ride his thigh as they shimmied down, down, not letting Sammy off the hook, and then back up, slowly.

"That's it, baby," Sam guffawed with the song winding down.

"But I am NOT lifting you over my head," he growled at his brother over Beth's curls.

"I liked it."

If the music hadn't gone quiet between songs, they might not have even heard her. But Dean had heard her, heard that husky tremble in her voice; and when he looked down, she wasn't looking up at him, she was looking straight ahead, at his neck; and Dean was suddenly aware of her hands on him, fingers splayed out on his shoulders and hot little thumbs just inside his t-shirt collar against his skin. He was suddenly aware of her tight thighs, straddling his, the cradle of her resting against him, and how his hands -- joined with his brothers -- were keeping her there.

His eyes flicked up, caught the bright hazel of his brother's eyes, and knew -- as Credence Clearwater Revival's _Born on the Bayou_ started up over the speakers -- that his brother had heard her, too. Heard the breathlessness in her voice.

Sam gave Dean a nod, barely moving his head. He squeezed Dean's fingers. And then, slowly, they together pressed Beth's hips to begin moving her to the lazy rolling beat of another song that was on constant rotation in the Impala. Another song that Beth always asked if they could play again.

Dean straightened, took his knee from between her legs, and the three of them gently moved together, rocking shoulders as their hips moved to the bluesy, floating-down-the-river beat. In slow steps, Dean brought her closer to him, brought her thighs bumping into his, her breasts brushing against his chest. Her hips flush against his. Sam let go of his fingers and Dean saw his brother's hands trail down the outside of her thighs, stroke her flanks as Sam bent closer to her back, his dark hair obscuring his face. Dean let his hands wander higher, to her waist, and he felt Beth's quick inhale as he gripped her there. He forced her hips into a slow roll, forced her to feel the two men pressing up against her. When Beth rolled again by herself, all by her sweet curvy self, he hoped that meant she liked what she felt. He leaned back, not moving his hips from her, but wanting to see her face.

Her eyes, looking back at him, were grey with smoke. She scraped her pink bottom lip with her teeth.

"Is this okay, Beth?" he asked, low, stroking her ribs with his thumbs.

She tilted her head to the side as Sammy leaned his forehead against her neck and nodded. "I really like this song, Dean," she said, quiet, a little desperate, as her fingers gripped into his biceps.

"I know you do, sweetheart," Dean soothed, slowly easing her closer to the glide of the song. With Beth pressed against him, feeling the heat of her breath against his collarbone, he slid a hand around his brother's waist and brought Sam flush against her. He heard Beth's delicate moan as both men dipped to press their hard cocks against where she was most sensitive, the sound as horny and innocent as the high school dances she missed out on. In the roll of Sam's lower back, under his hand, he knew his brother had heard her, too.

And then he heard Beth gasp.

"Dean, I see her!" she said, pushing out of his arms, sending Sam stumbling back.

"Who?" He didn't have enough blood making it to his brain to process.

"Her!" She kept her arms down, not wanting to attract attention, but tilted her head to the hallway. "It's a succubus."

Dean saw a few pretty women standing in the doorway leading to the bathrooms. But a succubus?

Sam spoke up, forehead furrowed. He was probably having trouble with the blood flow, too. "Beth, I don't see -- "

"Don't you see her horns?" Beth insisted. "And her --" she grimaced. "Her face?"

"No, I don't --" But any question that Beth knew what she was talking about ended when one of the women, a leggy blonde, turned to glare straight at Beth and hissed a word that Dean could make out even from here, across the bar.

" _VIRGIN!!!_ "

"Darn it!" Beth cursed, then she was sprinting, away from Dean and Sam, across the bar, as the succubus turned and hightailed it down the hallway toward the exit door.

Dean and Sam swiveled to look at each other like...like...two asshats who'd just been rubbing their dicks up against an innocent _virgin_.

"Goddammit!" Dean roared into Sam's miserable face before he turned and started running, his brother right behind him. He couldn't take back humping the poor girl in a public threesome in the middle of stinking honky-tonk bar. But he sure as fuck could make sure she wasn't killed in its alley. 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Three hours after the kill, Dean was crossing the border into South Dakota, trying to outrun his self disgust as the dark, two-lane road raced by and Metallica screamed over the speakers. Sammy was fast asleep, his head tilted toward Dean as it rested on the back of the seat.

Dean had yet to look into the rearview mirror.

Of course Beth was a virgin. Of fucking course. If she hadn't had the opportunity for a little dance floor grind, she certainly hadn't had the opportunity for something not as innocent. Not a fuck. Or a touch. Probably not even a kiss, now that Dean was really thinking about the consequences of her nightmare upbringing. And it was just so fucking monstrous, to let a beautiful woman get into her 20s without knowing how good she could feel. How desirable she was. There'd been no choice in it for Beth, no stand, no signature on a purity contract. Just a Closet and a mother who let the nighttime drive her batshit crazy.

Dean felt a roiling in his gut when he remembered he and Sam could easily be put in the same column as her parents. A couple of sons-a-bitches who didn't give her a choice.

Her voice, when it came after three hours of silence, was like a dove's coo over the raucous metal flailing of the guitar. He wanted to keep the music loud, wanted to pretend he hadn't heard her. But he'd already jerked her around enough tonight.

He turned down James Hetfield's mighty yawp. "What'd you say?" he asked, casual, like he didn't have a care in the world.

"Are you mad at me?"

He closed his eyes against the white lines streaming across the blacktop. Opened them again to discover he hadn't magically wished himself out of this conversation.

"No, Beth."

"I'm sorry I ran outside without waiting for backup." Her voice was so quiet, coming from the depths of his backseat.

"No, you did real good," he told her. And she had, had the fight pretty much under control by the time he and Sam had charged through the alley door. Ultimately, it'd been Dean who'd stabbed the succubus bitch, but mostly because he needed something to take his frustration out on.

"Okay," she said. She was quiet a moment. "Are you mad that I made you and Sam dance with me?"

Jesus. Dean wanted to smash his head into the steering wheel. "No. Don't think that. You didn't make us do anything."

"Okay." Her voice was so soft. So confused and miserable. Dean couldn't help but look into the rearview mirror. She was staring out the window, her hand over her lips, like she was trying to keep them from trembling. She'd pulled on a flannel of his that he thought he'd lost. It's dark blues and blacks made her paleness shine like a light in the backseat.

Dean glanced at the road before looking back at her. "Beth, are you a ...?" He swallowed. "I mean, have you ever ....?" Fuck. He could feel himself blushing like he was 12.

"Yes, I'm a virgin, Dean," she answered immediately, dropping her hands to her lap, her wild hair hiding her as she looked down. "It must have been why I could see her true face and no one else in there could."

"Ok. Right," Dean said. He tried out a smirk. "Ain't gonna find too many virgins in a place like that." More sincerely, he said. "We're lucky you were with us."

She hadn't looked up from her lap. "I'm sorry if it makes you uncomfortable."

Dean cursed under his breath. _Man up, Winchester._

"Beth, look at me," he commanded in the rearview mirror. She raised those blue eyes to him slowly, her hair sliding away from her fine cheekbones. "Stop saying you're sorry. You haven't done anything wrong. Sam and I shouldn't have ..." He glanced out the windshield again. The road wouldn't save him. "We shouldn't have touched you the way we did."

"Oh." Her mouth made a perfect little "o," her eyelashes fluttered. "Why?"

There were moments when Beth reminded him of Sam without his soul, Sam who just let whatever he wanted pour out of him, with no filter between his brain and his mouth. But where Sam had been unapologetically evil, Beth was cluelessly innocent.

Now aware of how innocent she was -- aware of her untouched body, her unkissed lips -- it whispered across the place inside Dean that he kept safe for Sam, regardless of how fucking evil his brother was.

Dean clenched his steering wheel, fixed his eyes on the road. "Because...because Sam and I have been around the block a few times. And you...you've barely been out your front door. Now please -- please -- can we stop talking about this."

"Yes, Dean." He heard the leather creak as she settled back against the seat. But then she was there, right there in the space between his door and his head rest, and her voice was soft and quick in his ear. "But tonight was the best night of my life. And the dancing and the touching -- I really liked it."

The squeak of the springs announced that she was back in her seat. Dean leaned forward and turned up the music to a volume that was maybe less ear shattering than it had been before.

He glanced down at his brother. Head still slumped, faking sleep, Sam was looking up at him. Dean looked into his brother's clear, technicolor eyes and saw pride. A touch of sadness. And no small amount of troubled desire mirroring his own.

Barely moving his arm, Dean covered his brother's knee and squeezed. Kept his hand there as he straightened. Then aimed straight down the open road as Beth sang along softly in the back seat.  
  
_I never opened myself this way_  
_Life is ours, we live it our way_  
_All these words I don't just say_  
_And nothing else matters_

Those words she got perfect.

THE END

 


End file.
